


Formalities

by feminismintensifies



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: 2018 is the year i've accepted i'm not a good writer and decided to produce fic anyway, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 15:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15440181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feminismintensifies/pseuds/feminismintensifies
Summary: “You are not from here,” Cecil announced with certainty, swiveling the chair to face the man while leaning an elbow on the bar, chin in hand. “What brings a sharp dressed man like you to the beach?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this was "lucille projects all their english learning insecurities and screwups from childhood onto cecil" but it was too long so i had to come up with something else
> 
> please take this with a grain of salt because i am making literally everything up; about agnapolis, permafrost, cecil, and camus lmao. my greatest talent is completely disregarding canon and making up whatever bullshit i want.

Cecil had thought, when choosing the location of his last vacation before formally beginning the process of taking over the throne, that the beach would be a wonderful reprieve from the arid desert of his homeland. Standing on the patio of the luxurious beach house his parents had afforded him and staring at the open expanse of the sea brought with it the sinking realization that he found the large body of water _terrifying_. 

Sand was what he was used to; neither sandstorm nor quicksand could instill fear in him. Dry quicksand, as it was, was rare, and existed nowhere near the Agnapolian capitol. Even the thought of sinking into the sand was less unsettling, because the sand was escapable; solid, usually only soft until a few feet down where hardened layers of sediment were undisturbed by the wind. The ocean was inescapable, alive, churning, expanding endlessly and pulling people into its depths without mercy.

Cecil shook himself from his thoughts; there was no use driving himself into panic over the boundless expanse of the sea when he was already there. He would just make sure to stay out of the water if he could help it, though it felt almost like a waste. There was plenty to keep him busy in the coastal town without getting wet. First on his agenda, though, was finding a nice, sunny spot to sleep off his jetlag.

When consciousness returned to him, the sun had long set; it was just as well, considering it would have been noon in Agnapolis and he had no intention of adjusting to the local timezone when he would be here for only two weeks. Cecil stretched with a groan and arch of his back before rolling to his feet, glancing at the wall clock illuminated by moonlight; it was merely a quarter past midnight, which meant he would still have a chance to mingle with the town’s nightlife if there were any.

By the time Cecil was out of the shower and through the process of personal grooming, the clock was crawling towards a quarter to one. He parsed through his luggage while drying his hair, a dissatisfied pout settling on his lips. His wardrobe consisted mostly of traditional and formal Agnapolian garments, and his small collection of casual clothes accumulated over the years left a lot to be desired. He would have to browse the local shops if he didn’t want to be wearing the same outfit of green swim trunks and white t-shirt everyday.

There only seemed to be one active spot that evening; a two story bar and dance club. The dance club was on the second floor, which was really just the roof with a canopy tent, which left it open to the night air. As he approached the building, Cecil had it in his head that he’d go straight there, more in the mood for burning energy and meeting strangers than drinking. When he actually entered the ground level bar, though, his attention was snapped up by an alluring presence seated in the middle of the bar. He stood out for many reasons, most of all for the commanding aura his regal posture exuded, but certainly not least of all for the near translucent paleness of his skin. Cecil would almost call it pallor if it weren’t for how smooth and soft it looked as his feet carried him closer to the blond stranger without his permission.

 _He’s tall,_ Cecil thought, eyes taking in his appearance from head to toe, _Maybe even taller than me._ His legs were incredibly long and crossed at the knees, clothed in white slacks held up by a black belt. A crisp button up shirt of the same color was tucked in, although the man’s tie was loosened and a button undone; a clear sign he had more to drink than the clarity of his focus as Cecil settled into the barstool next to him betrayed.

“You are not from here,” Cecil announced with certainty, swiveling the chair to face the man while leaning an elbow on the bar, chin in hand. “What brings a sharp dressed man like you to the beach?”

“I’ll entertain answering that question,” his voice was so unexpectedly deep, Cecil could not stop the shiver that ran down his spine, “if you can first tell me what makes you so certain I’m not from here.”

Cecil gave a pointed glance around the room, filled with burly men who were clearly sailors, or young people on break from university and no strangers to the sun. “You do not look like leather or a lobster, and you are distinctly lacking in copious amounts of facial hair.”

The look of affront the comment garners is probably a rare lapse of control in expression, and Cecil smirks smugly to have earned it so easily.

“Your formal and accented speech hardly helps you blend in, either,” the man snaps, eyes turning back to his drink which he sips haughtily, most likely intent on ignoring Cecil.

“You speak formally as well,” Cecil pointed out, just to be contrary. “Although you have a better grasp of the language. Do you speak the same one where you are from?”

At the praise, if it could be called that, the stranger opened up a little, if the slight lax in his posture were anything to go by; Cecil found it endlessly amusing that the man’s minute gestures made him so easy to read.

“No,” he admitted, “But I have a career in linguistics. It would be embarrassing and unprofessional to be anything less than fluent in the language of any country I travel to.”

“Ah, so you are from another country altogether.” The stranger frowned slightly, most likely miffed with his own slip of tongue. “So am I, if that is not already obvious.” The stranger did not deign to reply, so Cecil forged on. “May I ask, what is your name?” Icy blue eyes glanced at him in a calculating side-eye. Cecil offered an impish smile.

“Camus,” the man, _Camus,_ Cecil corrected himself, offered after a long moment of deliberation and deeming him worthy of the information. “I suppose it would only be good manners to ask for your name in return.”

“I am Cecil,” he replied, smile growing into something large and satisfied, but still decidedly mischievous. “I must say, Camus, you make quite the image.”

“Yes, we’ve already covered that I don’t look like a handbag-”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Cecil cuts him off. This time, Camus actually turns slightly to look at him, raising one eyebrow in askance. If it were possible, Cecil’s smile grew even bigger. “You look almost too enchanting to be real, like an orthodontist plucked straight from my dreams.”

The color that spread over Camus’ face at the flirtation was pleased, but somehow it did not match the bemused expression forming in his features.

“Do you, perhaps, mean Adonis?” Camus asked, and his voice sounded as though he was restraining laughter.

“Ah, foreign languages are so hard,” Cecil whined, hiding his face in the hand he had been resting on, but peeking through his fingers to watch Camus bite back a smile.

“A flattering compliment nonetheless,” Camus appeased, hand reaching halfway to remove Cecil’s from his face before aborting the action, once again grabbing his drink and downing the contents for an excuse to turn away. Cecil dropped his hand and leaned forward in his chair, close enough to smell Camus, a scent as fresh as a winter breeze mixed with the sweet cocktail he had been drinking.

“I only say what I mean, Camus.”

“And what is it you mean to say?” There was a challenge in Camus’ voice, in his eyes as he met Cecil’s; it sent a thrill through him, stole his breath for a moment because in that moment he knew Camus returned his interest for more than just the sake of being lauded.

“What I mean to say is that I have a waterfront beach house not a ten minute walk from here, and it would be an honor to entertain your company there.”

“Then who am I to deny you your pleasures?” Camus’ words were as laced with double meaning as Cecil’s own, and Cecil did not give him a chance to doubt his answer as he hopped to his feet and offered his hand. The moment Camus took the outreached hand, Cecil pulled him to his feet and out of the bar, with perhaps only a bit too much gusto. 

He could hardly help himself; the last few months had been full of tedious political discussion, endless argument over whether the time was right to put Cecil on the throne when an allyship conference with the northern country of Permafrost was right around the corner. In the end, his father had flexed his authority as sovereign and silenced all arguments. Cecil _would_ be taking the throne before the year’s end, but to compromise with his council, he had agreed that until the conference with Permafrost came to a close and the ally agreement was signed, Cecil would be observing and preparing. After that, it would become his responsibility to maintain good relations with them.

Now was hardly the time to think of such things, though. Camus, for all his rigidity and air of pomposity, made no comment of Cecil’s keenness, or the fact that he had forgotten to let go of Camus’ hand. They made their way down the winding road that scaled a cliff overlooking the sea, with Cecil’s beach house nestled against it. The bar was only about halfway up, and the minutes it took to walk back down and reach the beach were filled with idle chatter.

“What is your country of origin like?” Cecil asks genially, adjusting his hand to thread his fingers with Camus’. The other man looked down at the joined hands for a moment, as if he had forgotten about it, before glancing back at Cecil’s face and then turning his eyes to the star spangled sky in thought.

“Nothing like this,” he settled on after a quiet moment. “My home country is very cold. The heat here is very oppressive.” Cecil could not help the bark of laughter that escaped him.

“You find the heat oppressive and still choose to wear so much clothes?” Cecil laughs, tilting his head in question. Camus frowns down at his clothing.

“I would usually be wearing far more layers than this. I’m not even wearing an undershirt.” This time, the chuckle Cecil let out was far more controlled, not nearly as loud or startling in the mostly still night.

“My country is very arid,” Cecil extends in explanation for his amusement. “Although our traditional clothing is layered, most of it is not so…conservative, I think you would say. Nudity is not taboo or uncommon, but neither is covering up. Both are good means of keeping cool, although the latter is chosen mostly by people with more delicate skin.”

As they neared the bottom of the cliff, the breeze carried the strong scent of the sea and the sound of the winds washing against the shore. Cecil lead Camus down the outcropping of stones that separated the edge of the town from the sand of the beach, along a trail of less fine sand that hugged the curved cliff-face. As they rounded it, the beach house came into view, and Cecil was glad he had the sense to turn on the outside lights before leaving despite his excellent vision at night; he imagined it would have been much harder for Camus to see otherwise, so far separated from the town’s streetlights.

Silence followed them up the wooden steps leading to the door, but anticipation tagged along with it. There was a tension suddenly and all at once between them; it became almost physically tangible when Camus let go of Cecil’s hands to remove his shoes and dump the sand that had found its way into them, the grains falling through the half inch gaps between the planks of the house’s stoop. Cecil took the opportunity to kick off his own sandals, glad when Camus dropped his own shoes off to the side instead of putting them back on. 

Once again, he offered his hand to the blond, and the strain of uncertainty practically dissolved when Camus took it and let himself be led inside. 

That, however, was the furthest he let himself be led. Cecil barely had the chance to gasp as Camus pulled him back, into himself, against the closing door, before thin lips descended upon him. They were unsurprisingly saccharine, and shockingly cold, but Cecil melted against him in spite of it. He tugged on the tie until it came completely loose, letting it slip to the floor as he worked another button on Camus’ shirt loose to make room enough for his hand to slide in against Camus’ collar bone. His skin was cool to the touch despite the humid heat that crept into late evening, and it sent a shiver down Cecil’s spine.

Camus, not one to be outdone, let his free hand skim over Cecil’s waist, before snaking its way up the back of his shirt. The action made Cecil arch into Camus, skin tingling with something between ticklish and sensitive, shivers doubling up with Camus’ cool hand pressed against his heated back.

When Camus finally broke the kiss to mouth at Cecil’s jaw, the brunette was gasping for breath. The way Camus’ teeth scraped over the hard line of bone before his tongue tasted Cecil’s pulse made Cecil squeeze the hand still firmly holding his, other hand drifting along the strong line of Camus’ neck to weave into the long hair at the nape of his neck. Forsaking the idea of catching his breath with such an unrelenting assault on his neck, he spoke his next words through pants:

“There are, ah, better places to do this than against a door.” When Camus didn’t let up, Cecil tugged his hair, for which he earned a throaty groan and a nip to the sensitive line of his neck. They had hardly more than _kissed_ , and already he felt ready to fall apart. It was as much thrilling as it was overwhelming.

Finally, Camus showed him mercy, pulling back far enough to look into Cecil’s eyes; he had been right about Camus being taller, if only by the barest inch or so. His eyes were hooded now, less sharp, pupils dilated.

“I suppose I ought to let you go so you can lead the way,” Camus finally surmises, and before Cecil can say otherwise, his blissfully, unnervingly cold hand has extricated itself from his shirt and Camus had removed himself from his space; the air that filled the void felt overbearingly hot after being pressed up against Camus’ baffling cool.

Their hands remained connected, and Cecil used it as a tether to tug Camus along to one of the guest bedrooms. He was glad that even now, in the stupor of his lust, he had the sense not to drag Camus into the master bedroom, where he had actually deposited his luggage and, thoughtlessly, left it strewn all over the bed.

Much like when entering the house, they were barely beyond the threshold of the bedroom door before Camus took the lead. This time, instead of pushing Cecil against the nearest vertical surface, Camus spun him around, and before Cecil could catch his bearings, wrapped both arms tightly around his waist and _lifted_ him. The strength of the action surprised him, and he instinctively wrapped his legs around Camus’ hips. Camus wasted no time settling Cecil roughly on the bed, and Cecil felt absolutely enthralled by his manhandling.

Despite his royal status, Cecil was no stranger to affairs; teenage hormones affected even royalty, afterall, and his parents gave him perhaps more freedom than they should in regard to how properly he carried himself, how strictly he adhered to social etiquette and class boundaries. Regardless of his easy attitude and disregard for his status when mingling with the people of his country, none of them could ever forget who he was; even the people he deigned trustworthy enough to sleep with would not dare treat the prince, _the king’s son_ , in such a rough manner.

The fact that Camus knew nothing of Cecil’s status, would have his way unless Cecil vocalized he would prefer it another; it was electrifying. He had no idea how much he had wanted someone willing to lead him, to be rough with him, to _take_ him until that moment, with Camus leaning over him, tugging Cecil’s shirt collar down far enough to bite the juncture of his neck and shoulder. If he had even an ounce of shame, the loud moan the action drew from him would have left him embarrassed, but he held no such qualms.

The intense onslaught of want, however, also came with a disappointing realization moments later, and it was the thought process equivalent of a cold bucket of water being dumped on him.

“C-Camus,” Cecil panted. After a moment, he found his arms and reached up, tugging once again on Camus’ hair and earning the same treatment as he had in the foyer; he felt Camus’ groan in his own chest, fingers twitching as those horrible, wonderful, sharp teeth nipped at the point of his clavicle. Then Camus finally relented, raising his head to look heatedly into Cecil’s eyes. Cecil had to swallow and let his legs fall from Camus’ waist like dead weights to keep his focus. “Camus, I don’t have…anything.”

He felt stupid, suddenly, in the face of the reality that he had invited a man to his house and didn’t even have to means to make good on his proposition. Camus, to his credit, did not look disgruntled or even put out. Quite the contrary, the corners of his lips switched up in a smirk.

“I can find other ways to unravel you.” _Oh._ There was promise in his voice, in his eyes. Cecil felt as if his brain was short circuiting, and he could not conjure any words except to echo the single syllable in his thoughts.

“Oh. _Oh._ That’s - I - Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their lack of resources didn't last for more than a night.

Their lack of resources didn’t last for more than a night; as promised, Camus unraveled Cecil quite thoroughly, and after Cecil returned the favor with double the enthusiasm, they had passed out together on the guest bed with barely enough energy to clean themselves off before doing so.

Camus had a week left in the beach town, and somehow by two days into that week, his luggage had ended up joining Cecil’s scattered all over the master bedroom. As it turned out, Cecil didn’t need to bolster his wardrobe at all because he simply ended up borrowing from Camus’.

The blond had raised his eyebrows when he had caught Cecil leaving the bathroom in his shirt with barely 3 buttons closed, but offered no comment. Cecil took it as permission.

Not all of their time was spent loafing in Cecil’s beach house; Camus lead Cecil around like a tour guide, having familiarized himself with the small town’s layout in the week’s head start he had. Their first stop had been a kitschy tourist shop, and Cecil had spent the majority of an hour trying on various and increasingly ugly items to try and force a laugh out of Camus. He hadn’t gotten more than a twitch of his lips, but he was satisfied with that.

On the fourth day of their week together, they visited a cafe where Cecil learned the true extent of Camus’ sweet tooth.

“It is kind of incredible,” Cecil commented, more to himself than to start conversation as he watched Camus put his tenth packet of sugar into his tea. “There can be no way you are not on the verge of health complications from your excessive consumption of sugar.”

Camus’ eyebrow twitched at the comment, but he didn’t deem to reply. Cecil smirked into a sip of his latte.

On the fifth day, they explored the sparse woods at the top of the cliff. Camus had balked when Cecil had scaled a tree like it was nothing, offering a hand to him to pull him up as well; after a bit of pouting and whining, Camus had reluctantly relented, then promptly threatened to pull them both out of the tree when Cecil laughed at his struggling.

“I am almost sure your home country has more trees than mine, and yet you find it much harder to get up one.”

The sixth day found them on the actual beach, and Cecil did his best to hide the slight tremble in his knees as they faced the water. Camus, now long familiar with it after being the cause of it himself, wasn’t fooled for even a second.

“Afraid of the water?” Camus asked, smirking now that he got to return the teasing Cecil had been relentless with since the day before. Cecil tried to laugh it off, but sagged when Camus only gave a knowing raise of his eyebrow. Camus wasn’t one for exaggerated gestures, Cecil had learned, and this small action was his way of gloating at having something to hold over his head in return.

As it were, Camus was merciful; he had delicate skin, a byproduct of living in a northern country plagued all year with snow, clouds, and cold bitter enough to keep people inside and out of direct sunlight. He had no interest in swimming, setting up an umbrella and beach chair, contenting himself reading with the sounds of the sea and the feel of the breeze against his skin.

Cecil chose to sunbathe, or at least, it was what he had been intent on doing. He started stretched out on a beach towel just out of the reach of Camus’ umbrella. Somehow, as the sun made its slow crawl across the sky, shifting from morning to afternoon, Cecil migrated, too. At noon, he found himself with his arms folded over one arm of Camus’ chair and chin resting on top of them. Not long after, he crawled his way onto the chair.

After that, it was scant minutes before he had pulled the zipper of Camus’ light white jacket all the way open and derailed them both from their original intentions. That day was a lesson on all the unpleasant places sand could find its way into even if one wasn’t directly on it.

Today, it was the last day Camus had left of his small reprieve before returning home and resuming what Cecil could only assume were business responsibilities. Despite his best efforts to learn as little as possible about the blond to avoid forming attachment, Cecil had picked up things through their casual conversations and there was a feeling of dread sinking in his stomach at the thought of spending the next week alone.

“When do you leave?” Cecil asked, trying to keep his tone light as he watched Camus pack from his place sprawled across the bed. Camus glanced at him, then did a double take and narrowed his eyes. Cecil knew it was because he was once again in Camus’ shirt.

“This evening,” Camus replied after a moment longer than necessary, glancing back down at his luggage as he placed the last item he folded into it and closed it for the moment, shoving it under the bed for now. Cecil pretended like his heart didn’t throb at the answer, inspecting his nails instead. He wouldn’t even get to spend another night in Camus’ company.

The bed shifted, and Cecil looked up in time to see Camus slide over the bed to him; somehow, he made even the action of crawling across a mattress look graceful.

“Don’t look so glum.” When he spoke, it was directly into Cecil’s ear and he couldn’t stop the shudder that wracked his body. “We still have the day together.”

Camus kissed his way down Cecil’s neck, and Cecil’s hands clutched at his shoulders. He pushed the shirt Cecil hadn’t even bothered the button further open to kiss and bite at his chest, and Cecil couldn’t contain the moan that left him when Camus bit down and sucked. There was no way his intention wasn’t to leave a mark, and it sent a thrill through Cecil.

As always, Camus’ hands were cold when they joined his mouth in teasing Cecil’s chest, tweaking a nipple as his tongue laved the other. Cecil arched into him, hands fluttering for a moment before weaving into Camus’ hair to tug him up and into a kiss.

Cecil sucked Camus’ tongue into his mouth while his fingers slid down to make quick work of unbuttoning the blond’s shirt. Camus’ blunt nails scraped their way down Cecil’s front to draw a pleased hum from him. Then, without warning, Camus yanked his unfastened swim trunks midway down his thighs, smirking against Cecil’s mouth when he yelped before pulling away entirely to pull the article of clothing down the rest of the way.

“You are unusually eager,” Cecil panted, arms falling uselessly at his sides now that Camus was out of reach. Camus didn’t reply at first, choosing instead to lift one of Cecil’s legs to place a kiss against his ankle.

“I’m always eager to ravish you,” Camus answered between trailing more kisses up the length of Cecil’s calf before putting his leg down and starting again with the other one. The action made it hard for Cecil to breathe.

“Then…” he trailed off for a moment when Camus put the other leg down as well, leaning forward instead to begin kissing his way up Cecil’s inner thighs. “Uncharacteristically enthusiastic?”

“Would you say I’ve lacked enthusiasm up to this point?” Cecil _felt_ Camus’ voice against his skin, deep and rumbling and he throbbed with arousal so intense he almost forgot to answer.

“This is not my first language,” he whined.

“Likewise,” Camus retorted with a smirk, and now he hovered right over Cecil’s cock, looking up at him. Cecil didn’t know if it was for permission or if he was still waiting for a clarification on what Cecil actually meant.

“You are being—” but he didn’t get the rest of the sentence out, meaning to tell Camus he was being _playful_ , because Camus chose that moment to mouth his way up the underside of Cecil’s cock. His cool fingers wrapped around the base, sending shivers up and down Cecil’s spine, licking the head coquettishly — the audacity — before swallowing as much of him as he could fit in his mouth.

Even Camus’ mouth, inexplicably, was cool. Nowhere near cold, like his fingers, and warmer still than his skin, but not hot in the way Cecil would expect for it to be. It still felt sinfully good, and Cecil gasped and groaned and clutched the pillow under his head. With one hand, he blindly clutched around under it, and when his hand closed around a small, near empty tube he fumbled it down to Camus.

“Please,” he wheezed, nearly braining Camus with the damn thing when Camus applied suction as he pulled off. The wet _pop_ sound the action made was almost lewd enough to make even Cecil blush. Camus took the proferred tube from Cecil’s shaking hand.

Camus took his time preparing Cecil; his fingers were cold, they always were, and the feeling of the first slick digit at his entrance never failed to make him tense. Camus’ other hand distracted him, though, caressing Cecil’s sides soothingly until he relaxed before pushing his way it. Usually after that it was smooth sailing, as the saying goes, but Camus repeated the process for each finger. He opened Cecil up slowly, watching his face as he searched inside of him for the spot that made him lose his breath, made him bite his lip with overwhelming pleasure. When he found it, he prodded and massaged it relentlessly, until Cecil was a sobbing, gasping mess.

Just when Cecil was on the brink of orgasm, gripping the wrist of Camus’ hand that had stilled on his side, Camus retracted his fingers.

“You are c-cruel,” Cecil hiccoughed, breathless and pushing himself up on shaking arms while Camus stripped off his pants and dug through the night stand for a condom. Before he could turn onto his hands and knees, however, Camus was back and pushing him down again roughly.

“Like this is fine,” he murmured, grabbing one of Cecil’s legs and pushing it up against his chest, other hand positioning his cock. Cecil’s hand clenched the sheets and Camus breached him, slowly and then all at once. The stretch was familiar now, delicious, but the angle was new and different and Camus hit Cecil’s prostate on the first thrust in. He leaned in, pressing in further and harder, both of Cecil’s knees hooked over his elbows, and when he began thrusting in earnest his face was right there, hovering over Cecil’s.

For the most part, Camus was quiet during sex; not silent by any means, but he did little more than grunt, pant through his pleasure, almost inaudible, the deep rumble of his voice more easily felt than heard. Now that he was so close, Cecil was overwhelmed with both feeling and hearing Camus, but worst of all seeing it. The furrow in his brow, the part of his lips, the way his pale blue eyes were half-mast and despite his blown out pupils, still boring into Cecil’s own. Cecil closed his eyes and pulled Camus into a kiss, tangling his hands in his long hair.

It was amazing, it was horrible. It was everything Cecil didn’t know he wanted, didn’t know he _needed_. He moaned into Camus’ mouth more than he actually kissed him, but Camus didn’t pull away, nipping at Cecil’s lips and licking into his mouth regardless.

Cecil’s orgasm hit him out of nowhere, untouched and unprepared. His vision blanked out, semen painting stripes over his own abdomen, arms squeezing Camus’ shoulders harder than was probably comfortable. Despite it, Camus kept moving, erratic now and not far behind Cecil.

He whined when Camus pulled out, not ready to let go of the feeling of being full, but limbs feeling too limp and boneless to stop the blond. He chuckled against Cecil’s ear and ruffled his hair, pulling away with the promise of returning quickly. And he did, condom disposed of and warm washcloth in hand to clean up the mess Cecil had made of himself.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, which didn’t surprise him; Camus had been merciless, and good sex always made him sleepy. When he had the wherewithal to open his eyes and realize the sun had long set, however, his heart dropped. 

He sat up fast enough for his head to spin, stomach lurching in protest and reminding him he had not eaten since the morning. With much less grace than usual, he rolled off the bed, landing on his knees and searching desperately underneath. There was nothing there; Camus’ suitcase was gone.

Cecil’s hands clutched uselessly in his sleeves, realizing belatedly that he had never taken Camus’ shirt off. He sniffed, shrugging it back onto his shoulders and fasting a few buttons before searching for his shorts. 

Camus’ vacation may be over, but Cecil’s wasn’t, and he refused to let loneliness ruin the rest of his free time before he returned home and accepted the burden of political responsibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure there's a million mistakes bc i wrote this primarily while half asleep, but i promise cecil won't be sad forever, and this isn't actually the end of this alternate universe i've created.
> 
> this honestly started because i fixated on the picture of cecil and camus on the beach from like s2 and all i wanted was beach bfs, but then it digressed into something much more complicated than that.
> 
> yell at me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/skeietonvirus) if you want


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